Thirty years of reducing high adventure to cold figures. Thirty years of recording strange cargoes and stranger tales into accounts. Thirty years of watching through a window while rockets, outbound, dug molten pits into the field. Thirty years of being on the edge, the very fringe of life ... but never in it.
Nor could Belmont have guessed or Meek formed in words the romanticism that glowed within the middle-aged bookkeeper's heart ... a thing that sometimes hurt ... something earthbound that forever cried for space.
Nor the night classes Oliver Meek had attended to learn the theory of space navigation and after that more classes to gain an understanding of the motors and controls that drove the ships between the planets.
Nor how he had stood before the mirror in his room hour after hour, practicing, perfecting the art of pistol handling. Nor of the afternoons he had spent at the shooting gallery.
Nor of the nights he had read avidly, soaking up the lore and information and color of those other worlds that seemed to beckon him.
"How old are you, Oliver?" asked Belmont.
"Fifty next month, sir," Meek answered.
"I wish you were taking one of the passenger ships," said Belmont. "Now, one of those tours aren't so bad. They're comfortable and ..."
Meek shook his head and there was a stubborn glint in the weak blue eyes behind the thick lensed glasses.
"No tour for me, sir. I'm going to some of those places the tours never take you. I've missed a lot in these thirty years. I've waited a long time and now I'm going out and see the things I've dreamed about."